Discovery
by snarkmcsnark
Summary: Set ten years before their supposed first meeting, Kick Lannigan sees John Bishop for the first time. The first encounter may have been brief, but it changes Kick in a coming-of-age sort of way.


_**AN** : It's another Danny Pino + blonde actress ship I can't get out of my head. Go figure. This little plot bunny wouldn't escape me so I just had to write it. I know Gone and One Kick, which is the book the show is based on, are not categories available in ff, so I'll be surprised if anyone reads this at all. But if you're here, welcome! _

_**TW** : This one-shot features a 16-year-old girl masturbating while fantasizing about an older man (26-30 years give or take). I don't condone pedophilia, and I can assure you that nothing of the sort happens here. It's really just about a teenager's first forays into self-pleasure, which includes fantasies that are pretty normal. And my intent is to write something that is, hopefully, relatable to the one or two people who manage to find this fic. Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Discovery**

* * *

Kick Lannigan's pink-streaked blonde hair sticks out in a sea of military haircuts and sleek one-toned ponytails. The farther she walks into the FBI training ground, the more she sees people dressed in navy t-shirts paired with cargo pants and black boots.

"Conscription ended a long time ago, Frank."

Special Agent Frank Novak laughs, even though Kick doesn't find the joke to be particularly funny. Frank has a tendency to do that. He looks at her like she's still the same 11-year-old he rescued from Mel Foster's basement. He overcompensates for — _god knows_ — and acts like her doting father, even when she has to remind him that he's not. She's grateful his team caught a break and found her five years ago, and she will always feel a little indebted to him, but Frank doesn't get to preside over her life.

As Kick walks beside him, she has her hands stuffed in her pockets and her mouth working on a Bazooka-flavoured bubble.

"I know this isn't what you had in mind when I told you I wanted you to learn how to fight —" Frank begins.

"— But I thought 16-year-old former hostage victims get hired out of high school to work as undercover operatives for the FBI."

He says nothing, which makes her believe there may be some truth to the statement.

Frank stops and walks toward the window to their right. Floor-to-ceiling glass stretches down the length of the hallway. From the third floor of the building, they can see the field outside. It's about the same size as any football field, with a red clay track bordering it. Instead of the white chalk lines on the grass, there are walls, ropes, and all sorts of obstacles. Kick watches as two men race under wired mesh, crawling on the muddy ground and using the strength of their forearms to propel themselves forward. She follows Franks gaze and sees a dark-haired man with a backpack run toward a wall twice his size. He leaps up, feet planted on the flat surface, back parallel to the ground. He grabs onto the rope and he walks the rest of the way up. He makes it look easy, but even Kick knows these military drills are no joke.

"There's at least 80 pounds worth of sandbags in his backpack," Frank says. She steals a glance and notices he looks almost proud. He has a thin-lipped smile on his face like he knows something she doesn't.

They redirect their attention back to the stretch of open hallway. Along the way, passing the football field, they pass another expanse of grass. This time, it's located behind the compound and it's surrounded on three sides by trees. Rows of white targets line one side and across from those targets are aluminum-roofed boxes. It's a shooting range.

"You're going to teach me how to fire a gun?"

Frank stops. "Not until you're 18 and not until Paula gives the green light."

Kick rolls her eyes, knowing her mother would never be on board with guns. She freaked when Kick came home one day with a pocket knife. The only reason Paula reluctantly agreed to Frank's idea in the first place was that she was so desperate to try anything that would keep her daughter out of trouble. It didn't look good on America's Number One 'Kidnap Mom' if her formerly kidnapped child was wasting away in juvie.

"I'm taking you to the dojo," says Frank. He stops in front of double doors and pushes them open to reveal a large room about the size of a typical high school gymnasium. Blue mats are sprawled in neat grids on the floor. Multiple matches are happening at the same time; Kick doesn't know where to look.

But everyone else seems to agree that the right place to stop and stare is in her direction. People who were just watching at the sidelines, turn toward the doorway. She catches the recognition on their faces; they identify the seasoned FBI agent but their expressions are curious when the collective gaze lands on her. Then it hits and they lean toward each other, whispering, "Is that Kit Lannigan?"

"What is this?" Kick asks, ignoring the whispers. "Am I like the female Karate Kid?"

"Karate, Tae Kwon Do, Judo, Krav Maga…" Frank trails off. "Almost all the martial arts styles you can think of, there's someone in here who can train you."

"Wait, I'm learning how to fight here?" She asks incredulously, blue eyes wide.

"Hold on there, Kick." Frank puts his hands up to quell her excitement. "Only government agents get to train on the grounds. But I do know most of these guys, and some of them hold classes in their own dojos."

"Oh," she replies with a hint of disappointment.

Frank places his hand on the small of her back. Her first instinct isn't to lurch away, which is progress. He leads her farther into the gym. Someone behind her stops Frank; he shakes the man's hand and they catch up. Kick keeps walking, mesmerized as she scans left and right, observing the bodies fighting and grappling on the blue mats. Frank's voice is far behind. The stares and whispers don't bother her anymore. She stops when she sees a man — no taller than 5'7" — strike a single direct attack that lands his much larger opponent on his back. A smile spreads across Kick's face. She thinks this is Frank's greatest idea in five years.

* * *

"Darren told me he'd like to train me in Jeet Kune Do, which is the same martial arts style Bruce Lee perfected," Kick talks a mile a minute as they walk down those same halls. The two spent the last three hours learning about the different styles and meeting their respective instructors. While Kick was eager to learn as much as she could, she knew she needed to start somewhere so she went with Darren's expertise. It was his single direct attack that had impressed her the most; she didn't know a move so graceful and so low-impact could cause that much damage. "He said we'll start on Monday after school. We'll go over the principles then he'll demonstrate the stance and —"

Kick notices Frank is no longer listening to her. A wide smile spreads across his face and he reaches an arm out like he's about to shake someone's hand. She turns to see the man that has got Frank in such high spirits, and her breath hitches.

She's not the type of girl to have crushes. She hates the idea of her brain turning into mush at the sight of a cute boy. She hates the thought of wasting time and effort, trying to look pretty and acting demure just to impress the opposite sex. Sure, there are a few hot guys in her high school (before they open their mouths and prove they're assholes like everyone else). And she did make out with Michael Lockwood in the back of the movie theatre during a screening of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street — (before he bragged to his friends and collected $100 for swapping spit with 'kidnapped girl').

Besides, the man standing in front of her isn't a crush. She denies it inwardly. But something nags at her. To call this a silly, little schoolgirl crush would be a disservice to the parts between her legs that are so affected by his mere presence. She bites her lips, thighs pressed together to relieve this unexpected coil of pressure that seemingly comes from nowhere.

"Frank." The man smiles and Kick feels her skin glow like her blood is made of liquid neon.

The two exchange a handshake, but then Frank does the unexpected and pulls him in for a one-armed hug. The man appears to find it just as unexpected because his dark eyes grow wide. "John, it's good to see you. It's been what?" Frank pauses as he pulls away, looking at Kick for an answer she clearly does not have. "Two, three years?"

The man named John smirks. "Three," he confirms. "I was deployed in '04 then got my contract transferred to uh —" he pauses when his gaze briefly flickers to the pink-haired girl to Frank's left. "I was meaning to call," Bishop explains. "But you know how these things go. I'm only here for a few days before I'm flying back out to Jalalabad."

Shame, Kick thinks to herself. She inwardly shakes her head at herself for attempting to take mental pictures of the man before he flies back out to the war zone. _Damn that President Bush_. She studies his face, clean-shaven and hair cropped close to his skull just like many of the men in the training ground. Even though he fits the uniform look, there's something about him so distinguished and handsome that makes him attract her attention. Dark eyes framed by thick, black lashes. Full lips that curl at the corners to deliver the kind of panty-dropping smirk that she's sure he uses to get himself in and out of trouble. An angular jawline that could probably cut through glass. And that body. He isn't particularly jacked, but Kick could map out the lean muscles through his tight-fitting clothes.

"Well, it was really good to see you. I thought that was you out on the wall earlier, but I wasn't sure."

A brow raises. On anyone else, it would've been cocky — the kind of look that would make Kick roll her eyes. But it suits him the way his t-shirt suits him, the way the fabric stretches across his chest and his sleeves wrap snug around his biceps. Kick notes the edges of a tattoo peeking from underneath his left sleeve, and when she looks up she sees that he's caught her staring. He doesn't say anything about it though; instead, he smirks. The almost imperceptible curl of his lip is one she wants to mirror with her own.

"It was a good run," he says, pointing a thumb toward the field. "Can't say it's just as easy when you're in the desert."

"Yeah," Frank says with a laugh. "How is that?"

John licks his bottom lip. "Dry."

"Not here," Kick answers. Both men turn to her, brows furrowed inquisitively. She feels her face all the way to the tips of her ears turn red hot. "I mean… Not here in Pittsburgh. Ha. It rains here all the time."

John cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes.

Frank's mouth curls into a frown. "It rained a week ago, but I wouldn't call this place Seattle."

"But relatively speaking, it's wetter down here — I mean, rainier stateside than it is out in um… Jala- um…"

"Jalalabad," John says with a small smile, like he's trying not to laugh at how stupid she sounds. "Afghanistan," he adds when he notes her unchanged confusion.

Kick narrows her eyes at him and feels herself come back to the fore. "Thanks for the free geography lesson, pal."

"You're welcome, pal." He says without missing a beat.

She rears her head back, surprised that he takes it all in stride. His cocky grin returns and she notices his gaze flit from the top of her head down to the vandalized Converse high-tops on her feet. When he's done giving her the once-over, she turns to Frank. "I'll be in the car."

As she walks away, she hears John call back to her. "It was nice meeting you, too."

She's about to shout something back when she sees that his back is turned, t-shirt taut over those ridiculously cut back muscles, and he's talking to Frank. Kick huffs and storms out of the building.

* * *

Kick can't get away from Frank fast enough. She slings her backpack over her shoulder, talks over him to thank him for the field trip, and slams the passenger side door of his Chevy SUV. She heads straight up to the front door, her hands shaking as she tries to insert the key into the lock. When the door opens, she hears the thrum of the car engine and the rubber peeling away down the street.

"Mom!" Kick yells, dropping her backpack by the door. "Mom, you home?" She tries again, but there's no answer. She kicks off her boots and leaves them on a haphazard pile at the entryway. Paula hates it when she does that, but Kick is really into leaning into her angry adolescent phase. It frustrates her mother to no end, which Kick finds satisfying especially when she sees her mom typing away in her Macbook, working on that manuscript. A subjective nonfiction account of the harrowing experience of having her child kidnapped. "Mom!"

She walks into the kitchen and finds a pink post-it note on the kitchen island. _'Dinner's in the oven. Last minute meeting with the publisher.'_ She draws a heart on the lower right corner. Kick opens the oven door to find her mom's eggplant lasagna covered in tin foil and still warm from it's bake earlier that afternoon. Normally, at this time, she'd be starving. But food is the last thing on her mind. She shuts the oven door and heads upstairs, taking two steps at a time, as she heads for her room.

She shuts the door and leans against it, closing her eyes. Her mind is instantly inundated with images of John, just standing there in his one-size-too-small t-shirt and his egotistical smirk. She imagines what it feels like to peel off that shirt, let her fingers trace the contours of his abs. She presses her fingertips to her lips, wondering what he tastes like.

Kick's eyes flash open.

"What the fuck?" she chastises herself, pacing to the other end of the room, her fingers mussing up the knots in her hair. She remembers the way he appraised her hair like he was amused by her choice of pink. Well, fuck him.

The thought tightens a coil deep, below her belly. She clenches her legs together. Her mouth opens in complete surprise at the strange effect the thought of John has on her body. She feels warm, her clothes sticking uncomfortably to her damp skin. She peels off her patch-covered jacket and drops it on the beige carpet. She pulls off her ripped jeans, hopping on one foot in a futile attempt to get them off. She trips over her jacket, sending her flying ass first and just missing the foot of her bed. She lands on her ass with a thud and she winces.

Once she gets her jeans off and her left sock in the process, Kick stands up and catches her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her hair's a mess and her face is flushed. She has that just-had-sex glow, which she's only really seen in movies. She's never even gotten close to having sex. Not that she's in any rush; no boy in her school makes her want to drop her pants and spread her legs. But in the moment, Kick finds herself frustrated about the serious lack of sex in her life.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Kick mutters under her breath as she reaches under her white tank to unclasp her bra. She drops the garment on the floor and heads for her bed. She lies on top of the covers and stares at the ceiling. She purses her lips, closes her eyes, and let her fingers find the place she needs release.

This isn't the first time Kick's ever touched herself. She's explored self-pleasure, masturbation, whatever you want to call it a number of times over the last couple of years. It started when she accidentally rubbed against her pillow when she was tossing and turning at night. It felt good, so she kept doing it. But it never quite reached a peak. It just kept feeling good until she grew tired of it and stopped. Then she started to use her hands and figured her fingers would be the most accessible compromise to the — um — real thing. It was the only way she could simulate the penetration she craved. It felt weird in the beginning. She couldn't really get over the discomfort of the act to make it a pleasurable experience. It felt anatomical — like she was studying the female reproductive system.

Those times she did attempt to pleasure herself, she realized she had always pictured this amorphous hot guy. Lean, muscular body, large hands that liked to squeeze the curvy bits of a woman's body. Maybe a few scars with a cool story ascribed to each one. He never really had a face though. At most, the nebulous guy in her fantasies had the typical masculine male model look, but none too memorable that it was ever the same guy from one 'session' to the next.

This time is different.

All Kick sees when she seals her eyes from the world is a slow-motion reel of John, just standing there fully clothed looking smug and gorgeous. Her fingers drift from her sides to the tops of her thighs. She takes a breath, sliding her hands between her legs and bending her knees.

The cool patch of moisture on her cotton panties contrasts with the warmth of her skin. She licks her lips and pulls the seat of her underwear aside to get a better feel of her wetness. She bites down on her bottom lip. She squirms down against the sides of her fingers, feeling them slide against her folds.

"John," she exhales.

She imagines what it must feel like to have him touch her, to feel his fingers in place of her own. Long, thick digits sliding along her labia, shining with her arousal. There was no ring on his left ring finger, so that's a good sign. Not like a grown man like John would ever be interested in a teenager. But, at least, the fact that he isn't married makes this feel a little less illicit. She remembers his arms flexing as he pulled himself up with the rope. The sinews of his muscles running down his arms when he crossed his arms over his chest. She pictures his arm flex, his fingers doing the work to bring her closer and closer to the edge.

Kick throws her head back and moans. Her fingers graze over her swollen nub. She presses the hood of her clit between thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently then with a little more force. She winces, but it stirs something deep in her. She imagines that's what it would be like with John — pushing and pulling between pleasure and pain. She likes the idea of that. If that makes her one fucked up girl then, "Fuuuck…"

Kick flips over on her stomach, hand still wedged between her legs. With her free arm, she grabs onto the metal post on her bed. Her knuckles are white from gripping. Her mouth is pressed, screaming dirty little pleas of _'fuck me'_ into the pillow. She can hear the deep rumble of John's voice in her ear — how he wants to take her like this from behind. How he wants to pummel into her body, take a fistful of her hair, and graze his canines down her neck. "Please," Kick begs, even when she knows no one's there to listen. She rubs herself on her mattress, her clit feeling a delicious tension that she's never felt before. She's never been this close.

With her thumb still pressed on her clit, she slips a finger into her tight hole. She groans at the sensation of being filled. There's no discomfort this time as she's properly lubricated, a warm gush of silk coating her thrusting digit. But it's not enough and she knows a man like John would be packing something more substantial under those cargoes. She inserts another finger. Biting down on her lip, teeth nipping through the skin, Kick gets on her knees with her head still resting on the pillow. She fingers herself, wrist starting to cramp from the repetitive motion.

Kick feels something tingle along the length of her spine. She lets go of her bedframe and cups a tit through her shirt. Her nipples pebble into hard points. But the contact isn't enough. She slides underneath the soft, cotton fabric and grasps one in her hand, squeezing and wishing it's John who has his hands and his mouth all over her. His pliant tongue snaking between her legs, flicking her swollen sex while his fingers plunge and explore in and out of her tight, wet heat.

She moans, arching her back so she's resting on her heels. Kick is the picture of wanton lust as she kneels on her bed. Her wrist is getting sore and the muscles in her arm are strained from being locked in front of her body. She runs a hand through her hair, throwing her head back when she pictures John peeking up from between her legs, that smug grin on his face. "Fuck. Me." She cries out in a hiss. The coils bound tightly to her orgasm finally let go, and she comes unexpectedly. Liquid heat coating her fingers, sliding down to her folds, and making a dirty, little mess of her duvet. Maybe it's the intensity of her climax. Maybe it's the fact that this is the first real, no-doubt-about-it orgasm she's ever had in her life. She falls forward on her stomach, turning her head to the side and panting. Her cognition is in a daze, her temples throbbing at the electric current coursing through every single nerve ending in her body. She seals her eyes tight to try to calm herself, get her heart rate back to a reasonable level.

Her deep breathing exercises are interrupted when her phone beeps from its perch on her nightstand. She jerks, her clit pressing down on the duvet. She groans inwardly at how sensitive she feels after all that manipulation, how satisfied she feels after a real orgasm. Reaching for her phone, she sees that she has a new message from her new instructor, Darren Wu.

 _"Hey! Looking forward to training you. Unfortunately, I made a mistake with my schedule and didn't realize I'll be out of state next week. If you're eager to start, I can hook you up with a good friend of mine who's in town for the next couple of days. He knows his stuff and he's actually worked with Frank before, so common ground? Anyway, his name is John Bishop and I can send you his details if you're interested."_

Kick doesn't waste a second. She types furiously into her phone. _"No worries. I can wait another week before training starts. No need to bother another guy."_ She sets her phone down and covers her face with her hands. She is so not interested, even though her body is buzzing with curiosity. She starts picturing John Bishop — _so that's his last name_ — with his hands on her body and his breath hot on her skin.

Less than a minute later, her phone pings again. It's Darren. _"Shame. I'm here with John right now and he says he's a little hurt you didn't take him up on the offer, but he understands. Guess I'll see you the Monday after next."_

Kick buries her head in the pillow and screams. She doesn't believe in a higher power, but she prays she never has to see the man responsible for her first orgasm ever again.


End file.
